


Enola Holmes: Game Afoot

by elspethkay



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Murder Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elspethkay/pseuds/elspethkay
Summary: Following the events of Enola Holmes (2020), Enola finds herself thrust into a new, unexpected mystery. Per her first adventure, she finds herself having to deal with her combative older brothers and elusive mother, while wrestling also with her growing feelings for the still-ridiculous Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 226
Kudos: 752





	1. A New Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried writing this with a bit of the Fleabag-style narration that the Enola Holmes film used - not something I'm used to at all! But I thought it'd be fun. Also, I'm quite busy atm (zoom lectures will be the death of me), so I'm basically just writing and posting straight away - but I'll try to edit when I can!

I take an immediate liking to the ivory box adorned with an intricate chrysanthemum design sculptured atop it. The perfect item in which I will soon fill with the spills of my detective work. Yes, dear reader, I, Enola Holmes, am officially a detective of London. Well, I've solved just the one case so far, but the handsome reward I was given will be more than enough to set me on the right course towards becoming a true, great detective. Phase 1 of my plan has hit some minor hiccups - I was inclined to put a notice in The Morning Herald advertising my services as a detective, but I'd rather not get the attention of my brothers at the moment. So, I've done what every other detective would - sneak into the local police station dressed as a boy (clothes courtesy of a fruit-seller I'd chanced upon), and riffle through their casework until I find something of interest. 

There, I chanced upon a treasure chest of backlog cases - that the police and detectives, like my dear brother, have perhaps deigned beneath them to solve. I noted down one - a shopkeeper at 18 Hackney Street who had reported theft in his stores, where I precisely happen to be at the moment. I pick up the ivory box. 

"How much for this box?" I ask the grey-haired man tucked in a corner. 

"Two shillings," he replies, his eyes not leaving the bit of intricate woodwork in front of him. He cuts a lonesome figure, hands rough from his craft, eyes curved in a natural squint. 

I produce the money, but stop just short of handing them over. I'd also like to solve your case." 

"Case?" he asks, his eyes rising to meet mine for the first time since I've stepped into the shop.

"Well, I'm aware you've been the subject of thievery these past weeks, and I'm here to help."

His eyes narrow. "You?"

"Yes! I, er... I'm a junior detective, and I came across your case while looking through the police documents." _Close enough._ A slight extrapolation of the truth at appropriate moments is probably warranted for an independent, junior detective just starting out, right? 

He sighs. "Well I guess you’re better than nothing.” He stands up, walks over to a small shelf and produces a faded brooch shaped like a “S”.

“Whoever took off with money from the shop left this behind the last time they were here." 

“May I look at it?” I ask, receiving the brooch. _Interesting_ \- I am not quite sure exactly how, but this looks to be a great case in the making. The game is officially afoot. 

A Few Days Later...

Or perhaps, the game is _not_ afoot. Or as afoot as I’d thought. Let’s run things through together. In these past few days, my progress has been as follows: 

Leads: none

Suspects: none

Clues: none

The book in my hands detailing my progress seems to mock me. Empty save a bunch of useless words on its first page. Pathetic. Clearly, there’s an angle I’m not yet seeing. Or, perhaps, the case is simply a dud - maybe that's why it's been relegated to the storage pile by the police. 

I sigh as I weave idly through Covent Garden. The market stands are overflowing with flora; flowers brightly in bloom whichever way I look. I find my eyes laying rest upon a vaseful of chrysanthemums, the pinks and whites of its petals mesmerising to look at. 

What would mother do? She’d see a S-shaped brooch and see it instantly as a cipher, a code of some sort. Surely it must mean something - no brooch is shaped into that strange, S shape without good reason. But what?

“Dendranthema grandiflora”, comes a voice from behind, right by my ear. I start, hands reflexively lifting into a jiu jitsu pose as I swing around -

“Tewksbury! Don’t creep up upon me like that you nincompoop!” I scold, but a smile forms instinctively on my face.

“That’s _Lord_ Nicompoop to you,” he replies, mockly stern. He’s dressed in a full suit, hair slicked back under his top hat. It's been a while since I've seen him, and that's evidenced by the sort of imperceptible physical changes only time apart would make one conspicuous of: he looks just a little taller, his shoulders are slightly broader... I'd even venture to say he looks more mature, but I'm sure he'll prove me wrong on that duly. Still, he looks good. 

“So what’s the occasion?” I ask, as we step into a stroll. “Why do I find myself meeting you amidst the hubbub of Covent Garden?”

“Well, I couldn’t miss the newest imports of flora to Covent Garden, obviously,” he replies, his eyes already flitting about at the various plants on display, surely reciting in his mind their scientific names. “I read your letter - how’s that case going?”

Right, the case. 

“It’s… going. I think I should be on something soon… but surely that’s not why you asked me here.” I promptly change the subject - it would be plainly disappointing if the subject of our first meeting after our farewell by the gates of the House of Lords was my entirely underwhelming subsequent detective work. 

“Right. Well... I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to my estate tomorrow.” he suggests with a hint of a stammer. 

“Oh, what’s the occasion?” 

“Well… it’s my birthday actually.”

Enola Holmes, you’re an idiot. How am I to become a great detective when I’m absent-minded enough to forget Tewksbury’s birthday? He’s supposed to be the nincompoop here. 

“Oh, but of course, I… definitely remembered that,” I reply with an embarrassing lack of grace, suddenly wishing I’d picked out some flowers as a gift earlier. _Well... better late than never?_ I whip around and… huzza! A bundle of burdocks - arctium lappa - the first plant he’d pointed out on our adventure together. 

“One moment,” I say to an amused Tewksbury, as I hastily purchase the bundle of burdocks, and present it to him with a slight flourish.

“Arctium lappa? What-”

“The first flower you pointed out to me after we rolled off that train, silly. Not the prettiest flower out there, but as I recall, highly useful for a hearty meal when one is eloping to London on foot… sort of like you, I suppose.”

There's a short beat - _oh no,_ _am I about to be called out for a sub-par gift? -_ but then he replies with a hearty laugh, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

“Flattering as always, Enola Holmes,” he remarks as he receives the flowers, hands carefully clasping around the stalks. “So, how does tomorrow sound?”

“Of course I'd love to be there. I’ll be there around midday,” I reply, mind buzzing at the prospect of revisiting his estate - the last time I was there, his grandmother nearly killed us both. I briefly wonder how the place might have changed since then. 

“Well, that’s… very nice to hear. I have to be on my way now. Till tomorrow then, Enola Holmes.”

“Good day to you too, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether.” I say in a comically posh accent, then drop into a bad imitation of a curtsy.  
  
“Be careful with how you use my name Enola Holmes, you’ll wear it out.” he replies, feigning disapproval. 

There’s a short bit of silence and for a moment, our eyes meet in deadlock, and we’re stuck in an aloof orbit of just two. His hands reach out, as do mine, and we clasp our palms together briefly… then recede. He tips his hat, and parts with a smile and a lingering gaze. 

Oh, I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. Enola Holmes, great detective of London, falling for the foolish, proud and utterly ridiculous Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether? Well… those eyes though. And he is growing nicely into that suit… oh, pull yourself together Enola.

I walk off, finding a smile plastered to my face. I suppose a brief respite from the city _could_ do the trick for my current predicament - detective’s block, I’ll call it. Besides, I couldn’t miss his birthday, however much a nincompoop he is. It’ll be a fine day tomorrow. I’ll celebrate a dear friend’s birthday, clear my mind to get a fresh view on the case, and return to London with brilliant new lead. Sounds perfect. What could go wrong?

  
  
  



	2. Back again to Basilwether Estate

Quick note to self to start the day: tempting fate by thinking that nothing can go wrong is a foolish thought no proper detective should ever make. Needless to say, the day started off poorly - I had thought it wise to dress properly for the event, and ventured to fit in myself in a light, shrimp-coloured dress that I quite vainly found to make my dewy complexion prettier. I had spent a despicable amount of time wrangling with a stubborn corset that I must have outgrown. By the time I fit myself into the entire get-up, my face and skin were flushed red like a tomato from the effort. 

Presently, I find myself seated in the back of a carriage, wishing I had eaten a bit less of the baked beans and potatoes I had for breakfast. It feels as if every bump in the road is causing my stomach to churn explosively, and the corset pressed tightly against me like a second skin is not helping things one bit. 

Still, I've been through worse, haven’t I? I am determined to greet Tewksbury with a sunny disposition. I heave a welcome sight of relief when the carriage enters the gates of the Basilwether estate. My indignant stomach must have drawn all focus of the world outside the carriage from me, because as I look out of the window, I realise I’m in the procession of some sort of entourage - primped up carriages line the road in an orderly queue in front of me, extending all the way to the main doors of main house.

My my, Tewksbury sure is a popular little Lord. I squint to get a better look at the assemblage of people gathered at the expansive front porch - a neat row of servants guide guests towards a garden patch, where the main party must be happening - banners and prim tentages sway lightly in the wind.

 _Right, you can do this, Enola Holmes_. Sure, I’m not exactly a prime candidate for ladyhood - my brief but horrific pupilship at Miss Harrison’s school reflects as much - but one can always put on a good show. In fact, how can I call myself a proper detective without some degree of charm and class? 

I find myself swallowing profusely as my carriage nears the front - something deep and guttural seems to be welling in my stomach - is it anxiety, or bile from my regrettable breakfast? I truly cannot tell. 

“Miss Enola Holmes,” the guard announces, as the carriage comes to a sudden halt. 

_Yes, Tis’ I._ The moment I land my feet on the ground, my vision begins to swim a little. _Pull yourself together, Enola!_ This is normal, everything is going to be just fine. Just a little hiccup to start the day, things can only go swimmingly from here. _At the same time though, is it just me, or is the corset pressing even tighter against my skin?_

I nod at the row of servants lining the way to the garden. I notice the boy who I’d traded clothes with on my first adventure, and he gives me a hint of a smile. I look forward - the garden is not far. I briefly glance about, and all around me, gentry abound. Ladies clasped in pretty dresses, adorned with matching-coloured umbrellas, all in the tow of men in full suits. Delightful. A low, excited chatter permeates the air the closer I get to the garden.

My steps feel heavy - the gravel beneath my feet seem to grate against my heels. The sound of gravel against boot seems to ring in my ear, which is certainly not helping my already dizzy state. Come on, Enola, you’ve fought a trained assassin before - surely a simple walk to a garden party in a (ridiculously tight) dress is nothing?

I survey the tents around the garden, immediately noticing the Tewksbury family gathered under the largest one. WIth effort, I make beeline for it. Tewksbury is dressed in white from top hat to boots, and _oh my..._ is that my heart fluttering slightly, or simply some of my breakfast indignantly pushing its way up? He looks, well, dashing. Ridiculous as ever, but dashing.

He notices me as I draw close, but instead of a smile, I see his face morph into a frown. Am I imagining things? I can’t really tell - there’s a strange lightness diffusing through my head. 

“Enola, you look…”

“Stunning?” I ask, suddenly realising my voice sounds strangely garbled. _Wait… what’s that feeling?_

“... unwell. Are you alright?”

 _Oh dear lord._ Everything comes out. _Everything._ Baked beans, potatoes, milk, probably even some of that meat from last night. Right onto Tewksbury’s pristine white suit. 

An audible gasp reverberates through the garden. Do you remember me asking what could go wrong today? Neither do I. 

“Tewksbury, I…”

“Let’s get you both inside at once,” the Dowager says all of a sudden, beckoning sternly at the shell-shocked servants standing by, who immediately rush forward with towels. Wait. Hold on a minute. The Dowager?

“What… what are you doing here?” I try to ask, but nothing but some garbled nonsense seems to escape my lips. Before I can wrap my head around her presence, I’m whisked towards the main doors of the estate with Tewksbury, flanked by an entourage of servants.

I don’t think I’ll run you through the next half an hour or so, because it’s a bit of a blur, but it went something like this: bathroom, more vomiting, corsets, _projectile_ vomiting, more corsets, and suddenly, I’m dressed, primped and proper in my (thankfully) unscathed shrimp-coloured dress.

When I leave the bathroom, into a large hall, I’m greeted immediately by Tewksbury, dressed now in a clean, white suit. As if on cue, the servants depart, leaving us alone in the great room. 

“I must apologise-”

“Don’t mention it,” he laughs, then, as if realising he’s meant to be cross, mutters quite sternly, “although I must say, that was the most explosive introductions I’ve had today.” 

“As ever, I try to impress.” I reply, “But I _must_ apologise, that was appalling of me.”

“Well, apology accepted.” he looks around, as if some scandalous thought had just entered his mind. “Although I must say, your showing up in such a manner might have been a blessing in disguise, because I was insufferably bored out there. Mother thought it’d be a good idea to invite just about every member of the gentry to the party.”

“Well, shall we elope again, to London?” I ask, almost as a dare. 

“You tempt me, Enola Holmes,” he whispers conspiratorially, then nods towards a door. “But I can think of somewhere we can find refuge for a bit.”

He leads me through a series of doors - _dear lord, his estate is huge_ \- finally arriving upon a back door leading into a back garden. _Of course, his little house in the trees._

“I see you’ve kept this place in a nice condition despite your lordship,” I remark as we ascend to the top. 

“Well, I doubt I’ll ever lose interest in gardening, although Mother has a different view of that matter.”

We share a moment of silence as we sit against the branches, facing each other. Leaves rustle in the wind. A streak of sunlight basks us in a light glow. There’s a low flutter of nerves within me somewhere. It can’t be the food - there’s none left in me - so it must be something else. Hmm, did I mention that Tewksbury looks good in white?

“Enola, I wanted to tell you…” he leans forward ever so slightly, his voice uncertain, trepid even. “Well… I don’t really know how to say this…”

Our eyes meet, and once again, it’s like we’re in an aloof orbit of just two… except this time, it seems we really are, just the two of us, up here in a sanctuary in the tree. He begins to lean in a little closer… but a voice in my head, _yes, this one, the rational straight-thinking one_ , pulls me from the moment.

“I think we should get back to the party.” I start abruptly, breaking contact with his eyes with difficulty. “Your Mother will be wondering where you’ve went.”

There’s a brief pause when he says nothing, then a low sigh escapes his lips. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He moves to descend down the tree, his voice tinted with the disappointment of an unfulfilled moment. 

“Also, it just occurred to me… what’s your grandmother doing here? Didn’t she, you know, try to _kill_ us?” I remember as we begin to descend, hoping also to dispel the uneasy moment. 

“Well… let’s not get into the _legal_ side of things, but the short story is that she’s basically a hundred years old at this point, and she’s under a stern watch, so…” he chuckles slightly, “we’ve permitted her to stay.”

“Well, I’m not sure if that’s the _wisest_ decision, but…”

I’m unable to complete my sentence, because we’re suddenly greeted by a servant, who’s clearly out of breath from running.

“My lord!” he huffs, steadying himself for a moment to catch his breath. “I apologise for disturbing, but Lady Tewksbury requests your presence at once… I….” 

He stops this time to take a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he’s about to say. Finally, with just the slightest hint of fanfare, he says, “I’m… I’m afraid there’s been a murder, my Lord.”

_A murder? In the House of Basilwether?_

“A murder?” Tewksbury echoes my disbelief. 

“I’m afraid so, my Lord… poison, the doctor says.”

Something stirs within me. I realise, almost subconsciously, that the theft on 18 Hackney Street must wait - _sorry, dear shopkeeper, you seem like a nice person_ \- a new game is afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick confession: I kind of know where I want to take this story, but the planning was a little rushed (sorry!). It SHOULD feel a little less chaotic as the story progresses... fingers crossed.


	3. The Game Begins

I hear the commotion before I even see it - frantic conversations flutter about as we approach the large group gathered around one of the tents, the occasional wail or sob piercing over the already clamorous hubbub. 

“Oh, Tewky!” comes a cry - the crowd parts as Lady Tewksbury rushes to receive Tewksbury - _Tewky_ , _I think I’ll refer to him as Tewky henceforth_ \- embracing him in a hug. I see the deceased through the parted crowd, the large body of a man lying motionless on the ground. 

When Lady Tewksbury relinquishes herself from the embrace, her face is wet with tears. “Oh, just look at what’s happened to poor Lord Bening, and on your birthday of all occasions…”

“Lord Bening?” Tewky echoes my disbelief once again. 

You don’t seem to realise the gravity of this news, dear reader, so I think a quick run-through is in order: 

Lord Bening, Marquis of Carrington. He is… _was_ lord of the behemoth Carrington estate, larger even than the Basilwether one. Widowered, as I recall. One of the lords who voted against the recent vote. Very, _very_ prominent figure of the gentry. 

I notice the Dowager lurking insidiously in a corner, poker-faced. Could she be involved somehow? I’d wager yes - if she can fire a rifle at her grandson in one hand while holding a cane in the other, she could do anything really. I then observe the small gathering crouched immediately around Lord Bening's body. His family, no doubt, but I can’t seem to recall his lineage. I nudge Tewky - _it's a delightful nickname isn’t it? Tewky -_ he’ll give us a proper education on the Carrington estate. 

“Tewky - I mean, Tewksbury,” I whisper discreetly, “could you familiarise me with the Bening family?”

He seems to bristle at the mention of his pet name. Oops.

“First of all, no one but my mother calls me by that name,” he hisses - _alright then, Lord Almighty Tewksbury,_ “and secondly, isn’t it a little brusque to ask of their family lineage right this instant?”

“I need that information if I’m to solve this case, _my Lord,_ ” I hiss back, “I’m a detective, remember?”

He sighs, then nods at the elderly lady crouched over Lord Bening’s body. 

“That’s the elder Lady Bening, Dowager of the Carrington estate...” he begins. She’s inconsolable, in a crumpled heap before her son, frail body wracked in sobs. My breath hitches slightly - it’s hard to watch. 

“... that’s Lord Bening’s son, I know him as William, just eighteen…” he nods at the young man standing on the other side of the deceased Lord Bening, face ashen white, body rigid in shock. 

“I take it he’s the next in line,” I observe. 

“Astute as ever, Enola Holmes,” Tewky whispers back. “And he’s got a younger sister, Emma, thirteen this year if I recall, though she doesn’t appear to be present here today.”

Interesting - I’ll have to follow up on that.

“That’s their entire estate then?”

“Well… if you don’t count their sixty or so servants.” 

The doctor appears from an adjacent tent, specks of blood and vomitus still staining his coat. He’s flanked by several male guests of the party, their expressions leaden. It’s Sir Whimbrel Tewksbury, Tewky’s uncle, who speaks first. 

“Dear guests,” he begins in a grim, booming voice. “As we’re all aware, a terrible tragedy has occurred here… the Inspector has been called and will be here shortly with a detective. In the meanwhile, I kindly ask that everyone convene in the great hall while we await further news.”

He nods at the row of servants, who immediately break their formation to usher and assist the still-agitated crowd. The Inspector… I suppose he means Inspector Lestrade. A detective… can you hear the ominous footsteps of my brother already, or is that just me?

“Shall we go inside?’ Tewksbury asks, breaking me from my thoughts. I spy a figure from the corner of my eyes - their accompanying servant. A ha! The perfect witness to start off my case - one thing I've learnt through my frequent acts of disguise is that the servants know _everything,_ but they can be notoriously tight-lipped. In order to pull off a successful interrogation, I’m going to need to put up a good act. 

“There’s something I need to do,” I say, then turn sharply and begin striding purposefully back towards the main house. 

“ _Enola! What are you doing?_ ” Tewksbury protests in an indignant whisper, but follows closely on my heels anyway - _he would make a fine assistant, don’t you think? If he wasn’t, you know, an actual Lord._

We reach the great hall promptly, where guests are already milling about, still engaged in fervent conversation. 

“Where’s the kitchen?” I ask Tewksbury, as it suddenly occurs to me how much of a gargantuan maze his house is. 

“Why you do want to - never mind,” he sighs exasperatedly - _rude_ \- as he leads me through the main foyer, past several rooms, including one larger than my new accommodation in London that appears to be their dog's personal room - _his wealth is just overkill at this point_ \- and finally arrive at a flight of stairs leading downwards.

“Thank you, Tewkesbury, you’ve been of such help.” _Tewksbury feels like such a long, draggy name now. Tewky - so much better._ “But I’m afraid this is where we part for now.”

He frowns, clearly not on board with whatever it is he thinks I'm about to do. “Enola Holmes, what exactly are you planning to do?”

I lift the hem of my dress and slowly begin to descend the stairs - I’ll be out of this get-up soon. I turn back and face him, offering only a crafty gaze. “Detective work, obviously.” 

“You know, for some reason I'm getting the feeling that maybe I'd rather not be privy to your plan after all," he decides, then turns and looks back in the direction of the great hall. "...I’ll be in the main hall, I should probably attend to my guests.” 

“Oh, wait! I forgot something,” I suddenly realise, and fumble back up towards him. I I embrace him in a tight hug. _Oh my, he smells like flowers and fresh linen and... I should control myself._ “Happy Birthday Tewky.”

I step back, and notice the light pink that suffuses his cheeks. _My_ cheeks feel balmy all of a sudden ... they better not be a bright red. 

He clears his throat abruptly, fidgeting awkwardly with the top button of his suit. I don’t blame him - it _is_ getting a little warm in here all of a sudden. Still, he gathers himself and, in a most courtly manner, bows slightly as he lifts my hand to his lips for a kiss. _Oh my..._

He parts with a smile, turning and striding back towards the main hall. Right, let’s just take a timely pause here. I might or might not just leave the orbit of the Earth for a moment. 

.

.

.

Alright, back to the case! I proceed hastily down the stairs, into a smoky room bustling with the cacophonous sounds of cooking, cleaning and rambunctious yelling. Everything jam-breaks the instant everyone turns to face me - _awkward._

“Er… proceed,” I stammer, and thankfully, the clamour resumes. I hone in straight away on a suitable candidate, a young maid in a tidy uniform. 

“I’ll pay you five pounds to swap clothes with me,” I say to her instantly, and receive probably one of the biggest jaw drops of the century. Oh, right. I suddenly remember the despicable sum of money I had to part with for this admittedly gorgeous dress.... and I’m now paying someone to take it from me. Well, I am detective, not an accountant. 

***

After the exchange, I decide to add some embellishments to my new look. I frizzle my hair slightly, giving myself a set of unenviable bangs. Brilliant, that should do it for the disguise. As if on cue, a contingent of maids descend the flight of stairs, and I spot among them the Bening family's accompanying maid. She’s seems engaged in gossip already as they gather into a circle by the edge of the kitchen. I tread towards them as inconspicuously as possible, planting myself on the fringes of the group.

“.... he was already feeling poorly on the carriage ride over here” Lord Bening's maid says, “so my best guess is it was in the breakfast he was served this morning back at the Carrington estate. No doubt the Inspector will be paying a visit to our estate’s kitchen soon.”

“You think it’s possible one of his family did it?” a wide-eyed maid ventures. 

“Can’t say for certain,” she ponders, “ever since young Lady Bening passed, god rest her soul, we barely ever see our Lordship - spends his time holed up in his study. But just yesterday night… well, let’s just say his Lordship and his son were having quite the fiery shouting match in the study.”

Oohs and aahs go around the group. I find myself blurting, “And what about their daughter Emma? What of her?”

They all turn to face me. 

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” one of the maids says, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who’s your lady?”

 _Great._ So much for inconspicuous.

“Oh, I’m Lady….” I look around the room desperately for inspiration, “Lady… Lady Tomatocorn’s maid.” _Smooth, Enola Holmes. Smooth._

Carrington’s maid frowns. “Lady _Tomatocorn?_ ”

“Oh, she’s very new to the gentry,” I reply quickly, then lean in and give the best conspiratorial look I can muster. “My lady’s had a _very_ swift, opportune and advantageous marriage.” 

To my relief, they seem to buy it, as it elicits a fair amount of oohs and aahs. I segue quickly back to my question before they can ask more about dear Lady Tomatocorn of Tomatotown.

“The child, Emma, do you know where she’s gone?”

“Oh, that little nightmare’s always running off wherever she pleases,” she huffs. “Eluding her maids must be her favourite pastime. This time, she’s actually gone and ran off to London!”

_Run off to London? At such a young age? That sounds… well, pretty familiar actually._

“Aye, she is a little nightmare alright,” another maid chips in fervently. “She flipped poor Maisie to the floor when she tried to catch her, said not to mess with her because she knew... martial arts or something, the crazy girl.”

Martial arts? That rings a certain bell - I think I might have a lead. 

“Well let’s hope it’s over soon, the Inspector and detective are about to arrive I hear,” another maid adds. We’re interrupted by a deafening voice, and I turn to see a woman, who I remember as Tewksbury’s head housekeeper Mrs Hughes, thundering down the stairs as if she were being pursued by feral beasts. 

“Tea! Tea and scones! Tea and scones for the guests! I say, get off your bottoms, the guests need tea and scones!” she wails, brandishing a stack of tea trays. The room erupts into motion, maids and cooks alike scrambling for teacups and teapots. 

Right, I think I’ll take this as my cue to leave -

“You there,” Mrs Hughes thrusts a tea tray into my arms without so much as a second look, which is immediately loaded with several cups of tea by scarily efficient kitchen maids. “The lot of you here, proceed with me to the great hall immediately!”

Wait - 

I can hardly assemble a coherent thought, let alone breath a word, before I’m jostled up the stairs by others maids, and I find myself marching in an urgent formation towards the great hall. Are the last two minutes real - or have I stepped through the looking glass?

We reach a door leading to the main hall, where Mrs Hughes turns to face us. _You know, I’m starting to think my efforts to perfectly disguise myself have come to bite me in the behind._

“Now in you go girls, _everyone’s_ in there because the constable wishes to address them shortly - do _not_ leave your posts or attempt any funny business, I’ll be watching.” she instructs sternly, beady eyes sweeping across our ranks. _You’ve got to be kidding me_.

The door opens, and the formation shuffles forward.The girls in front of me begin to file out neatly into the expansive hall, which even for its size is densely populated with the sheer number of guests standing about. 

My mind goes into overdrive. My eyes dart around the room for potential exit strategies - the other entrances? Manned by butlers. The windows? Not happening. My eyes peruse the hall… and land on a particular figure right across the room, distinguishable by a haughty poise that would put most, even some in this room, to shame. 

I stop cold in my tracks. _Oh god forbid._ Even with his back facing me, I know I’m staring at the unmistakable profile of one Sherlock Holmes.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp things can't go right for Enola today. THANK YOU everyone for the support/nice comments so far - as a first time writer on Ao3 it truly means so much! Also quick note on updating: I'm pretty busy with classes Mon to Thurs (sigh), so I'll most likely update more towards the tail end of the week. Thanks again!!! <3


	4. Close Encounters with Sherlock

This day simply cannot get any worse, can it?

I swivel around in a one-eighty turn. Ok, I’m desperate now. For _any_ possible escape.

Oh, the serving tables at the corners of the hall! They’re draped in long, white cloths that drop all the way to the floor - it might just provide the temporary refuge I need, if I can just slip under one of them unnoticed...it hardly seems like a foolproof plan, but I’ll take anything at this point. 

I make a beeline for the table across the room from Sherlock, whose ominous presence I feel gathering from behind. An acute sense of panic rises in me as I see in my mind’s eye that hawk-like gaze of his surveying the room and landing inevitably on me.

I quicken my pace. _Ten metres._

“Oh, tea” comes a high-pitched voice - a lady stops me for a cup of tea. Her dainty fingers twirl slowly towards the handle of a cup - _these nobles and their tea etiquette will be the death of me right now_ \- and she delicately lifts it, before bringing it towards herself at an excruciatingly slow speed, while she raises a finger with her other hand in a clear signal: wait. _Oh for crying out loud._ She lifts the teacup towards her lips, clearly conscious to maintain the tea level at equilibrium… then tilts it just enough for the tea to glaze her lips - _it’s tea! Not the tears of angel!_

“Oh, this is splendid,” she chirps in a sing-song voice, then turns to her husband. “Charlie dear, would you like a cup?”

Okay, I’ve no time for this. I scoop another cup of tea from the tray, handing it straight to her husband. “There you go, my Lord.” I utter, and turn away before their looks of horror can fully form. 

_Eight metres…_ I spy a very familiar figure, currently engaged in conversation with a very pretty young lady. I catch Tewky’s gaze, and he does a double take that would’ve been hilarious if not for my current predicament. 

“E-Excuse me for a moment, Celia,” I hear him stutter, immediately hearing his padded footsteps behind me. _Well, this isn’t humiliating at all. Seriously, what happened to Tewksbury being the ridiculous one?_

I stop just in front of the table, quietly lowering the tray onto it. 

“I leave you alone for how long…” he begins, but I cut him off.

“No time for your snarky comments, Tewky,” I whisper harshly, not daring to turn my head. “My brother’s behind me somewhere, and I need to hide, _urgently_.”

“Hide?” 

“Under this table,” I continue quickly. “Tell me when…”

“Attention, ladies and gentleman,” comes the booming voice of Inspector Lestrade, and I feel more than see everyone’s gaze turning to face him. No time to think. I dart under the table at lightning speed.

Well, that was way too close to call. Now that I’m alone and can gather my thoughts - 

The cloth in front of me lifts suddenly, and before I know it, Tewky darts beside me.

“ _What are you doing?!”_ I whisper sharply.   
  
“ _I could ask you the same thing!_ ”, comes the equally sharp whisper, accompanied with a glare. 

I glare back in turn, and a fiery glaring match ensues. _I’m disguised as a maid, locked in a glaring contest with a young Lord while hiding under a table from my detective brother - just as typical afternoon in the life of Enola Holmes._

I relent. “Look, today’s just been chaotic for me” I concede.

His gaze relaxes immediately. “Well, it has been quite an extraordinary day.”

I’m about to start feeling sorry for myself, when I remember -

“Good news though, I might have got a lead.” I reveal eagerly. 

“Oh?”

“I have reason to believe that Emma might have snuck her way to a certain dojo in London, and I intend to find her as soon as possible” I say. “She’s got to be linked to this case in some crucial way.”

His brow furrows. “Interesting… I hear the Inspector has sent his constables to search the Carrington estate. I don’t think the Benings themselves know where else she might be.”

 _The maids truly know everything_ . I realise this potentially puts me one step ahead of the police… and maybe even the great Sherlock Holmes. It’s a pleasant thought for sure, and I indulge in it for a moment. Perhaps I can take consolation in having done _some_ good sleuthing today.

A short bout of silence ensues, and I suddenly become cognisant of our physical proximity - the table only afforded us so much space. I think Tewky is also just starting to realise this, as he seems to be forming words in his mind, but any word he might have spoken is interrupted by the distinct sound of nearing footsteps. 

Oh no. The Inspector is still taking in the background, so it’s very clear there’s just the one particular set of feet walking towards us, and I think we all have an idea of who it might be. Think, Enola, think! 

An idea springs to mind. Without so much as a second thought, I pull the watch hanging from Tewky’s coat. 

“What -”

“Pretend you were finding your watch!”

He gives me a look, but then takes a deep breath, and scurries out from under the table, watch in hand.   
  
“There it is!” he remarks, a tad melodramatic. He seems to turn to address the figure, whose footsteps have stopped. “Ah, Detective Holmes. Apologies for my untidy state, I’m going to need my tailor to fix this, my watch keeps falling off.”

“You’ve no need to apologise, my Lord” comes the ever-enigmatic voice of Sherlock Holmes. There’s a beat.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Lord Tewksbury, have you seen my sister Enola… _recently_?” 

Oh god. The way he said that last word… he knows. 

“Er… she, well… she left earlier actually,” Tewky stammers. _Valiant attempt, but the game is so up._

“Ah, I see.” Sherlock replies. “Well, if you do happen to see her in the near future, could I trouble you to pass on a message for me?”

“S-sure.”

“Just tell her I said this,” he starts, and clears his throat slightly, “Enola, I’ve decided to take over charge of you from Mycroft, who’s agreed. My door is open to you whenever you’re ready.” 

Two thoughts come to mind immediately. Firstly, he’s clearly mocking me at this point - _arsehole._ Secondly, if what he says is indeed true, then I must admit to being intrigued - tempted even, by the offer. 

“I will relay your message to her Mr Holmes… _if_ I see her in the near future, of course” Tewkesbury manages. _Sweet, sacrificial Tewky. I should probably make up for this ordeal in time._

“Thank you Lord Tewkesbury,” Sherlock replies, a hint of amusement in his voice. “ I hope the regrettable circumstances that have unfolded didn’t mar your birthday entirely.”

“Thank you, and good day to you too,” Tewky replies, relief palpable in his voice that the exchange is over. There’s silence - I assume they’re exchanging a bow, and then I hear Sherlock’s footsteps receding. A general commotion begins to pick up as well, and I realise the Inspector’s finished his speech, of which I did not catch a single word.

I soon hear a low whisper. 

“You’re going to have to wait this out a bit,” comes Tewky’s faint and muttered voice. “I’m going to slowly see my guests off.”

“You’re the perfect partner in crime, Tewky.” I whisper back. I don’t get a response, but I can sense his smile as he walks away, and I smile to myself in return. I sound insane to you, don’t I? Smiling at myself under the table. 

Regardless, time alone is time to think, to work. I pull out my handy detective’s notebook, flipping to a fresh page. 

Presently, one main suspect stands firmly within my field of thought - I write his name first: William Bening. He’d argued with the late Lord Bening just the night before. He’s the most to gain - his father’s title, lordship, inheritance.

Several other figures appear readily within my field of thought:   
  
Emma - how does she figure into the whole picture? Was her running away sheer coincidence? Too many questions, too few answers - I’ll need to find her as quickly as possible.

The old Lady Bening - what possible motive would she have in killing her son? Tewky’s grandmother would promptly reply that she did it for England, but somehow I’m not inclined to think I’ve to deal with two murderous grannies in the span of two cases. Speaking of Tewky’s grandmother, how does she come into the picture? _Does_ she come into the picture? I suspect I’ll need Tewky’s assistance on this part.

Who else? My instinct tells me there must be other players; sight unseen figures lurking beyond vision.

I decide my first priority must be Emma. She could be in grave danger, if there are indeed unseen, dangerous figures in the picture. I have a gut feeling her physical takedown of a maid is pointing me towards an accurate lead: Edith and her dojo. Nowhere else in London could be more perfect for a fight-ready girl.

Time must work differently while I’m sorting out my thoughts, because I’m soon broken from by thoughts by a light tap on the table above me. 

“You can come out now.” 

I pull myself out from under the table, eyes squinting as I try to adjust to the bright glow of the late afternoon sun. The great hall is almost empty save a smattering of servants, looking exceptionally vast in this new light.

I’m about to recite my entire plan to Tewky, when I notice the exhaustion written on his face, his shoulders slumping uncharacteristically from his usually impeccable poise. _Maybe not the best time._

I hug him instead, which he accepts most willingly, all but sinking against me. With how much we’ve physically connected this past day, I find myself tempted to say something of it, of how I felt warm in his arms, of how my fast-moving stream of thoughts ease to a gentle ebb and flow when we’re in each other’s arms… but something holds me back.

We tenderly unwrap ourselves from each other’s embrace. We look at each other, and seem to speak unspoken words with our eyes. 

“Enola, it’ll be dark by the time you’re back in London,” Tewky says softly, “you could stay the night if you’d like”  
  


Oh - _do you hear that?_ That’s every bit of my heart screaming yes, but no sooner does that happen when an unwelcome thought swiftly take its place - I see myself staying for a day, then a month and a year, then I’m made a lady, and fade into the countryside with days of purposelessness and trivial gossip - it all flashes before my eyes in one frightening moment, and I shudder involuntarily.

“I… I can’t.” I blurt out, then fumble out an explanation, “I have to be back in London by tonight so I can start on the case early tomorrow. So I… good day, Tewky.”

His face drops. _Oh no._ He tries to reply with an understanding nod and a small smile, but his devastation is barely masked, and the prior exhaustion in his face seems to return twofold. 

“Right, of course, I - I didn’t mean to - of course,” he mutters. “I’ll… I’ll see you to your carriage.”

I can’t look at him. We turn and set off wordlessly, with quickening footsteps and a rising sense of dread rising within me. We walk right beside each other, but I feel the distance between us growing with each step, some insidious force unravelling our gravities. By the time we arrive at my carriage, I feel magnetically displaced, like what once attracted now no longer did; the moments we'd shared throughout the day now tainted by a patina of loss. 

“Goodbye, Tewkesbury.” I say when he remains silent, voice tepid.

“Goodbye, Enola,” he replies quietly.

I enter my carriage, not daring to look out the window. I silently signal for the carriage master to go. 

The carriage takes off, and it’s only then that I’m overcome by the irresistible urge to look back out the window… and the sight that greets me is Tewkesbury’s turned back, already heading back for the house.

Oh. I retract into the carriage, as an unbearable heat begins pooling under my eyes. _Enola Holmes, you’re absolutely not going to cry over some stupid boy._

A memory materialises in my mind. I was just seven, and had fallen and cut myself badly while diving for the ball during a tennis match with mother. I’d felt tears springing indignantly to my eyes as mother bandaged my wounds, and her words play now in my head:

_My strong, brave girl. There’s no weakness in crying, my love, it’s okay to cry if you want._

And I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a rollercoaster - my Holmesbury heart is aching slightly. Still, hope you enjoyed <3


	5. Edith's Lead

I wake up from the worst night’s sleep ever. I must’ve spent more time sleepless than asleep, because when I look into the mirror after I get up, I’m greeted by a frightful reflection. The dark bags under my eyes are plump and mocking, and my hair is nightmarishly frizzled and clumped. _Such a lovely image to greet the morning._

After an extravagantly long bath - _standing in the shower can be so therapeutic sometimes -_ I prepare a hearty breakfast for myself: bacon, eggs, baked beans, toast. _Food too, can be especially therapeutic at the right time._

While tucking into my breakfast, I try to direct my mind to my objectives for today. The only lead I have, which remains somewhat tenuous, is the possibility that Emma might have visited Edith’s dojo. That idea was pure, instinctive guesswork and gut feel. If that turns out to be a dead end, then, well, to be quite honest, I haven’t thought far beyond that. Frankly, I haven’t had the headspace to think much ahead, after the events yesterday. I remain optimistic, however. If Edith knows something, then one lead will lead to another, and I’ll be one step closer to solving the case. 

I leave my place as soon as I'm done with breakfast, and make my way to Edith’s dojo. I pass by Covent Garden along the way, and... _o_ _h no - get out of my head Tewky_ . I see his face in my mind’s eye, and that releases the dam of memories and thoughts I’d spent the night trying to lock away in a secure place, somewhere away from where my usual thoughts flow. The way his face fell when I’d shuddered and rejected him, the excruciating, growing disconnect between us as we walked to my carriage… no, _stop._ Focus on the case, Enola.

I quicken my pace, and promptly reach Edith’s dojo. I open the door to see training in session, members in kimonos engaged in fearsome combat. Among the combatants, I spot Edith, who skilfully flips her opponent to the floor before calmly turning to face me. 

“Pair up with Ruth for a moment,” she says to opponent, then addresses me, her manner strict. “Enola Holmes, what brings you to my humble dojo?”

“I’m working on a case,” I reply as I walk in carefully, noticing the gazes that follow me, with what seems to be... admiration? “I might need your help.”

She gestures to convene in her office, and I follow behind her, conscious of the look everyone is giving me. Once inside, her stern exterior gives way to a light smile. 

“We all heard about what you did, how you helped get the vote through,” she says, admiration evident in her voice. “Who would’ve thought: young Enola Holmes, already an inspiration for change.”

My heart warms at those words. _An inspiration for change_ \- I never imagined someone would ever say that of me. It’s tempting to submit to this flattery, but I promptly rein in any feeling of self-satisfaction. _Well, almost all of it. I’ll allow myself a light pat on the shoulder._ There’s still much to be done. 

“Well, I learnt from the best.” I reply sincerely. She smiles in turn, then her manner returns business-like, and she pulls a newspaper from her desk. The front page is splattered with the sensational headline: _NOBILITY IN CRISIS: LORD BENING MURDERED, DAUGHTER MISSING._

“You mentioned a case… I wager it has something to do with this?”

“Well, you’re absolutely right,” I reply, and I sense she’s already anticipated my next question. “I was wondering if you knew anything about Emma?”

“And what exactly made you think that, Enola Holmes?”

My feet shuffle slightly. “Well... I got an inkling that she would be familiar with combat classes, from what a maid told me about her.”

Edith doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, she tilts her head slightly, the look on her face oscillating between uncertainty and awe. 

“Well, I can’t quite decide if that inkling of yours was one of prophetic genius, or sheer, dumb luck, but I do know something of Emma, or Bela, as she prefers to go by here.”

 _YES!_ Okay, now I’ll unashamedly allow myself a pat on the back. Also, an interesting name: Bela.

“Did you happen to see her yesterday?” I ask eagerly. 

“Not yesterday, no,” she replies. “But she’s been discreetly attending my dojo whenever she’s in London.”

“Discreetly, you say?”

“Her father thought she was in London doing dress fittings on Regent Street - she had a pact of secrecy with the maids she travelled to that effect.”

_Hmm, I’ve a feeling that if - when I find Emma, we’d get along swimmingly._

“Do you remember when you last saw her?” I ask, pulling out my notebook, where I begin making quick notes: _attended Edith’s dojo regularly & discreetly _

Her brows furrow as she thinks. 

“A week ago, perhaps.” I pen that down.

“And would you have an idea of where she could be now?” I ask hopefully.

This time, she seems hesitant to respond, and she words her reply carefully. 

“All I know is this: the last time she was here, she seemed to know something that she shouldn't have known. So wherever she’s hiding, she probably doesn’t want to be found.” 

_Oh, this is detective gold._ Clearly, I’m immediately worried for her, but I can’t contain the low pulse of excitement then runs through me when I pen down the words: _Emma in hiding because knows something she shouldn’t_

“And… would you happen to know what this ‘something’ is?” I venture, tentative not to sound over-eager. 

“Well, she wouldn’t say,” Edith replies, deep in thought. “She seemed eager to share it, but something very clearly held her back.”

“A scandal of some sort, perhaps?”

“I’d think so, although I really couldn’t tell.” Her voice lowers with a note of trepidation, worry seeping into her expression. “Whatever it is, it seems she’s in danger. She wasn’t exactly the most tight-lipped person around - she revelled in sharing with us some… unsavoury details of some of the gentry. I worry someone might want to make sure she’s shut up permanently.”

 _‘Someone might want her silenced’_ , I write, at once feeling the exhilaration of the evolving game, while at once feeling a real sense of gathering fear for Emma. The way Edith said it, she must be in grave, certain danger... and that makes my work all the more pressing.

“Thank you very much, Edith,” I say, satisfied with the information I’ve gathered, and anxious to further the search. I suddenly remember something. “If I could ask… do you know how my mother is?”

“She’s doing well,” Edith replies warmly after a beat. “Still fighting the good fight.”

“That’s good to hear.” I reply, feeling a swell of relief. From what I’d gathered during my ill-fated visit to Limehouse Lane, my mother’s line of work was and is a dangerous one, to say the least. “I think I'll be on my way then.”

Edith clasps my hands before I turn to leave, and looks me straight in the eye, her voice now infused with invigoration as she says, “ You keep on fighting the good fight too, Enola Holmes.”

I grip her hand firmly in return and nod sincerely before I depart, and I leave Edith’s dojo with renewed purpose. A young girl is in danger, and she might not be able to protect herself. I _must_ help her. But where do I start? Where do I begin to find someone who doesn’t want to be found?

“Perhaps she’s disguised herself somehow,” I wonder out loud in a low murmur as I begin to walk, “she does strike me as a resourceful type.”

The conspicuous absence of a reply leaves an acute emptiness in my proceeding thoughts. I almost hear a ghost of Tewky’s reply - a quip or other that directs me to my next thought. An elderly man walking nearby gives an ugly look in reaction to me speaking to myself, as if I’ve lost the plot. _Well good day to you too, sir._ Still, t his emptiness of thought stuns me. Had I somehow grown already dependent on Tewkesbury to bounce thoughts off, so much so that I can’t now singularly invoke thoughts on my own? For a moment, I question my entire mode of independence - I _am_ independent, am I not? A more welcome proposition enters my mind: _Or perhaps, I’ve simply lost the benefit that comes with the minds of two, as equals._

 _Equals -_ the word dances in my mind, filling it with rose-tinted possibilities. _A life with Tewky where my purpose extends beyond birthing an heir, where I can be a lady, and still choose my own path._ It’s a nice thought, and I remind myself that for now it’s just that: a nice thought.

I return my thoughts to the case - _where was I at?_ \- ah, perhaps she’s disguised herself somehow. As a shoe-shiner? A fruit-seller? Or as I did - as a lady. What was it Edith said again? 

“... _her father thought she was in London doing dress fittings on Regent Street.”_

And off to Regent Street I shall go! Before that however, a rather unfortunate outfit change is most likely in order. I’ll not get one foot within the doors of one of those shops without looking like a (god forbid) proper lady. 

***

May have gone overboard my outfit. The dress itself is a relatively simple, white frock. But the hat. _The hat._ What was I thinking? I’m facing a mirror in a shop right smack in the centre of Regent Street, and amidst the regal gowns and classy, feathered hats that surround me, I’m beginning to seriously regret the choice of my stark, blue hat. It looks like an escaped creature from the lost world, strands of tentacle-like feathers splaying out to one side. In my defense however _,_ I needed to look absolutely, unquestionably extravagant. That way, I can get the excessively posh dressmakers to talk to me without suspicion. I straighten my posture as a dressmaker makes her way up to me, her eyes darting wearily to the monstrosity on my head. 

“Good day, my lady,” she starts, impeccably professional. “How may I assist you today?”

“Good day,” I reply with as dignified a voice as I can muster. I play in my mind what I’d rehearsed myself to say on the walk over here. “I’m here to inquire about a customer who I believe was here yesterday.”

Her eyes narrow. 

“Apologies, my lady, but we’re not inclined to reveal the business of our clientele… may I know the reason for this inquiry?”

“Well, it’s just my cousin Lady Bela was here yesterday,” I say, and a spark of recognition crosses her face. _Bingo._ “She uh… she told me I’d find a wonderful dress here, before meeting her at…”

I pause momentarily, in hopes she will be naturally compelled to complete my sentence for me. 

“Meeting her at…”

The lady frowns. _Well, worth a try._

“At, er… where did she say to meet again?” I pretend to ask myself, then turn to the lady. “Did she mention anything about where she was going? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind!”

Unfortunately, she seems to see right through me. I guess my acting skills aren’t completely up to par. 

“My lady, I don’t know what exactly your intentions are here, but I’m afraid I can reveal no more about our other customers.” 

Alright, Plan B. 

“Look,” I start. “It’s just that, she’s gone missing, and I’m trying to find out where she went.”

“Still, I’m afraid I cannot help you, my Lady.” _Really?_ I suppose I’m left with no choice by Plan C.

“Alright, I confess,” I say with an air of resignation, “I’m not her cousin, but a detective on her case. I’ll need this information for official police business.”

“You’re… a detective?” she asks, looking pointedly at my hat. _That darned hat_ _._ “I’m afraid I have a hard time believing that.”

And I find myself saying:

"My name is Enola, apprentice to the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Her eyebrows arch into a sharp peak, her skepticism piercing. We come to an uneasy standoff, eyes meeting in a duel. I implore her steadfastly with my eyes, which she attempts to ward off with her skeptical gaze. We remain in this standstill for a while - _this is getting a little awkward -_ but finally, after a few more moments of torture, she sighs. 

“I’ll… I’ll attend to you later,” she finally says. “I must serve my other customers first.”

Better than nothing, I suppose. I thank her as she walks off to attend to a lady some distance away. _Well, I guess I’ll just... stand around awkwardly with my monstrous hat while waiting._ I run my eyes absently across the selection of dresses before me, each one a different design… yet all clearly and painfully bosom-enhancing. All except that one, right at the end. _Curious._ I begin to walk towards the unique dress tucked against the wall, when the shop’s door opens. 

The most breathtakingly beautiful young lady I’ve ever seen walks into the shop. _Even I can’t help but stop and stare._ She’s… ethereal, her face glowing, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Her already goddess-like features are enhanced by a shimmery, white dress. _Is she even real?_ As if she couldn’t be more unreal, apparently she recognises me.

“Oh, you’re Enola Holmes, aren’t you?” she says excitedly the moment she sees me, walking over as her small entourage follows suit. Her voice sounds strangely familiar. _Is she some kind of angel who’s come down from up above to recite my fate to me?_ “I saw you briefly at the party yesterday… Tewky’s told me so much about you.”

Of course - it’s the voice of Celia, the young lady Tewkesbury was talking to while I was disguised as a maid. I hadn’t been able to get a proper look at her face then. But also, wait… _did she just call him Tewky?_

“It’s… it’s nice to meet you and… you’re very pretty,” I say, very honestly. Regardless of my own abundant feelings of inadequacy, it feels wrong not to acknowledge another woman at the height of her beauty. The sublime, I feel, deserves its due. 

“Oh, you flatter me,” she blushes slightly. “Are you here to pick out a dress for the Tewkesbury ball this season?”

 _The what?_ She seems to sense my confusion, and quickly adds, “Oh, the Tewksbury ball! The most anticipated ball of the season. It’s where most find their match, you know.”

_Even estranged, I learn more ridiculous things about you everyday, Tewksbury._

“Oh, I’m here for detective work actually,” I reply, suddenly becoming conscious of my looming hat, which seems to rear its imposing, feathered head, feeling especially demonic next to Celia. _Why, why, why did I wear this darned hat?_

"Oh! Tewky’s told me about that!” _Again, with the Tewky._ “It sounds massively interesting, but I could never do it.”

“It’s not for everyone, alright,” I agree. “You’re here to choose a dress for the ball, I presume? Have you been matched?”

Her expression grows coy, her cheeks turning a perfect, rosy pink. “Well… not exactly, but Mother and I are fairly certain who I’ll be matched with this season.”

“Oh? Who’s the lucky boy then?”

“Why, Tewky, of course!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	6. Danger at Albermarle Street

Three possible responses come to mind immediately:

Response Number One: “Oh, how wonderful!” Then proceed to continue talking about dresses and balls and other Lady appropriate things. 

Response Number Two: _Scream._ Just absolutely unleash a blood-curdling scream, and run out of the shop, feigning possession by my demonic hat.

Response Number Three: “I doubt that’ll happen, after I do this.” Then launch an uppercut - _okay, this one’s going too far._

I open my mouth to speak, my mind still figuring out an appropriate response, when (perhaps thankfully) we’re interrupted by the shopkeeper who I’d conversed with, who walks over with a smile plastered on her face. 

“Lady Celia! How delightful it is to see you this morning!” she greets in a sugary voice, her eyes flitting between me and Celia. “You’re not being disturbed, are you?”

“Oh, not at all!” Celia replies, oozing sweetness. “This is Enola Holmes, who helped solve the Tewksbury case!” _Why does she have to be nice? I can’t even hate her._

“Ah, so… so you are a detective then,” the shopkeeper addresses me, her prior skepticism replaced by some degree of respect, although my frightful hat seems to leave some lingering disbelief in her expression. Still, she turns back to face Celia. “Well, regardless, would you require my assistance here, Lady Celia?”  
  
“Oh, I’m well taken care of,” Celia replies, nodding towards her entourage of three maids, standing obediently behind her. “Do you need assistance, Enola?”

 _Could you not say something rude to me? I’m trying to dislike you here._ “I… Yes, that’d be very helpful, actually,” I say somewhat pointedly to the shopkeeper. 

“Oh, excellent! You must help her Enola out then,” Celia urges excitedly. Try as I might to, I truly cannot tell if she is being genuine or not. On the one hand, she seems utterly, almost ridiculously sweet, which would ordinarily set off alarm bells in my head. On the other hand however, I sense not the slightest sense of animosity or arrogance beneath her words. I set aside these thoughts for now - I’m sure more will be revealed in due time.

“Alright,” the shopkeeper says with a hint of reluctance, “do please follow me then, Mrs Holmes, I’ll check if there’s anything helpful in the records.”

I give Celia a short bow: _thank you_ , who reciprocates with an encouraging smile - _honestly, how I am supposed to dislike her?_ Putting my thoughts of foiled dislike aside, I set off after the shopkeeper, who marches towards the back of the shop, where she pulls out a thick ledger, placing it atop the counter. 

“Right,” she says, running a finger down a long page of financial accounts. I peek discreetly at the page as she does, trying to make out the words on the page. “Bela… Ah, Lady Bela. She didn’t leave any details, unfortunately.”

But another name has caught my attention. Just several lines up in a tidy font is the name “William Bening”. 

“William Bening… he was a customer here?” I ask immediately, and meet with a stern look.

“I would prefer if I did the tracking of my records, Miss Holmes,” she says like a cross schoolteacher who’s caught a child misbehaving. “But yes, Lord Bening was around recently… he’s been around several times actually.”

“Several times?” _This must be important, although I can’t quite see how yet._

“Well… yes, picking out dresses for his errant sister, he tells me.”

“Is that not slightly odd?” 

The cross schoolteacher look makes a reappearance.

“I am in the business of _selling_ dresses, Miss Holmes, which does not tend to involve questioning the motives of my customers.”

 _Alright then, Ms Cantankerous._ Still, she traces her finger to William's name, and helpfully points out, “Ah, Lord Bening had dresses sent to his London address - 18 Albermarle Street.” 

I suppose it’s definitely worth paying their London property a visit, if simply because both William and Emma could well have visited during their seemingly frequent trips to London. It might just pave the way to a new lead. I pen down some quick notes in my notebook: _William visited dress shop several times recently, claims to have bought dresses for his sister._ I can almost see a connection being asked to be made; a piece of the puzzle ready to insert itself into its proper place, but this new fact hovers hazily in my mind. I’ll have to return to it.

I thank the grump shopkeeper, who dignifies me with a nod and goodbye, and turn to leave. I meet Celia on the way out, who is talking animatedly to her maids about her dress choice. _Even her servants seem to love her._

“Oh, Enola, did you learn anything?” she asks excitedly as I approach. She seems genuinely interested in a response, her eyes widening like a child anticipating the introduction of a new toy. 

“I may have a lead of some sort,” I reply, somewhat abashed by her profuse engrossment in my case. “I’ll probably be on my way now… see if the lead takes me anywhere.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Enola!” she says cheerily - _either this girl is made of literal sunshine, or she’s putting in a wholly excessive amount of effort in her niceties -_ and we exchange goodbyes with a short bow to the other, before I go on my way. 

18 Albermarle Street. That’s several blocks away, which means plenty of time to analyse the case at present while walking. _Or…_ plenty of time to consider Tewky’s apparent new match. 

Lady Celia. She’s the daughter of a duke if I recall. From my thankfully brief pupilage at Miss Harrison’s finishing school, her name had left enough of an impression for me to remember the many descriptions attributed to her by the other students; words like ‘perfect’ and ‘popular’ spring quickly to mind. 

I move to thinking about her compatibility with Tewky... and the result of any pontification about her possibility of a match with Tewky seems to lead to an inevitable, doubtless conclusion - they’d surely be perfect for each other. His interest in plants and flowers? Don’t potentially see any clash of conflict there. Worries of position and status? Clearly none. 

_What do I have that she doesn’t? My infallible wit and insufferable sense of humour?_ Even my inner dialogue sounds bitter. I try to steer to a more positive line of thought - as I’d clearly expressed to Sherlock and Mycroft the day they’d picked me up at the train station: I don’t want a husband. I don’t! By that logic, it shouldn’t matter to me who Tewky is matched with! Who cares if he’s matched with a girl who is perfection personified? Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m lying to myself. Well, I’m not. I’m just not!

I’m pulled from my rambly musings as I turn the corner into Albermarle Street. It’s fairly quiet for the mid-morning, with just the few pedestrians walking the street. I mentally begin to count the houses in view ahead as I walk… 1.. 2.. 3.. and stop short.

My gaze is pulled by a house some distance down, whose front door is flung wide open. Call it instinct, but something immediately tells me that is the Carrington house, and something of interest is going on there right this instant. 

I quicken my pace into a light run until I reach the front door of the stately apartment building, flanked by two Greek-inspired columns. A thought races to mind: _A family such as theirs would have staff dedicated to the day-to-day running of all or at least most of their estates, and surely their London estate… and there’s no way a butler would leave the front door so gapingly ajar._

I step towards the door, deciding it might be wise to remain quiet as I do so. Gingerly, I step past the open door, into an open hallway. It’s quiet, almost eerily so. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle… something is amiss. 

I step further into the hallway - _where’s the butler?_ \- which leads into an expansive living room. Everything seems in place; mahogany tables and chairs aligned, precious vases, paintings and silverware sitting in their proper place. _So not any robbery of the typical sort then._

A winding, gleaming staircase between the end of the hallway and the start of the living room leads to the floor above. _Upstairs then._ I inch my way onto the steps, taking them one at a time. Complete silence is impossible - my dress drags along each step with a low shuffling sound. I keep my eyesight on the top flight of stairs as I ascend. _There’s something on the top flight. What is that? An oversized black suitcase?_

I continue to ascend, and the object in front of me comes into clearer view. I freeze in my tracks as I near the top flight, my blood running cold. It’s the keeled over body of a man in a black suit, a large bruise on his head. _The butler._ I quickly run my eyes across the top floor. It’s dark, shadows set against the walls. Three doors, the one to the left ajar, the other two just barely open. Is that a shuffling sound I hear? 

My every instinct is telling me to bolt as far away from this place as possible. _But I have to investigate._ Goosebumps line my skin indignantly, an uneasy chill setting itself down my spine. I move as quietly as possible along the wall towards the open door, conscious of the sound trail of my dress as I tug it along the floor. _This accursed outfit is going to be the death of me, quite literally._

Painstakingly, I peak into the room, and my eyes meet two terrified gazes. _Maids._ One of them nearly gasps, but covers her mouth. They’re cowering in the corner of the room, fear reeking from their every quaking movement. My eyes dart around the room - there’s no one else. One of them points - _the room directly in front of the stairway._

I can’t go in there blind. As soundlessly as possible, I stride quickly across the room towards them, and that’s when I realise how much they’re trembling, their hands held together so tightly I see only the whites of their knuckles.

“ _There’s a man here?_ ” I mouth, and receive frantic nods… and then their eyes widen in horror. The prickle on the back of my neck reaches a fever pitch, a shiver catching in my breath. 

A deathly cold voice greets me from behind. 

“And who might you be?”

I steel myself as I turn around, and face a spindly man in a dark suit, a bowler hat casting a dark shadow over snake-like eyes. The darkness of his attire draws my eyes towards the silvery glint of the revolver in his hands. A quiet sob erupts from behind me, and it takes every bit of willpower in me not to follow suit.

“A lady, then?” he continues icily, strolling slowly towards me, his revolver directed straight at me. “You remind me of…”

He stops himself. I frown. _I remind him of someone?_ His gaze turns sharp, as he seems to realise he’s almost spoken too much. He steps closer towards me.

“Who are you?” I manage to ask, but my voice comes out in a low croak. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his lips pressed into a low sneer. “You see, in my line of work, I don’t leave any loose ends.”

 _That sounds very, very bad._ My mind whirls into motion. I have to act _now._ He takes another step towards me, close enough now that I can see clearly the marked lines of his face, and a thin scar that blemishes his lower lip. _Think, Enola!_ He thinks I’m a lady: he might underestimate me. It’s the only advantage I can think of in the moment, but I wield it instantly.

“C-could you allow me to recite a parting poem, please?” I plead, equipping my poshest accent. “I… I’d just like to leave the world with a sliver of dignity.”

He gives me a look full of mocking, clearly playing into my apparent helplessness. _Good - I need him to let his guard down just a little more._

“Go on, then,” he says, cruel amusement in his voice. He begins to soften his posture slightly, although his revolver is still directed readily towards me.

Taking a deep breath, I launch into a passionate recitation of Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for death”:

_Because I could not stop for Death –_

_He kindly stopped for me –_

He raises his eyebrow, the revolver dropping ever so slightly in his hand as his attention seems momentarily pulled by my performance.

_The Carriage held but just Ourselves –_

_And Immortality._

The revolver dips again. 

_We slowly drove – He knew no haste_

_And I had put away_

His grasp of the revolver loosens a fraction more, and it’s tip drops the slightest bit lower -

_My labor and my leisure too,_

_For His Civility –_

It’s almost pointing to the ground now. He seems to be nodding almost subconsciously to Dickinson’s impeccable rhyme.

_We passed the School, where Children strove_

_At Recess –_

_Now._ I lash out, slicing my legs towards the revolver. His moment of disorientation makes all the difference - he shoots before he can raise his revolver, and I feel more than see the bullet bury itself into the floor before me. The revolver flies out of his hand, and my body instinctively lunges forward. I channel momentum into my right leg, and slam a kick right into his shin. He howls in pain as he backpedals rapidly, crashing backwards onto the floor.

“Go! Get the police!” I yell at the stunned maids, who spring up instantly as if a flip had been switched, and bolt towards the door. 

“Oh no you -” the guy begins as he picks himself off the floor, but I race forward, picking up the revolver, and point it straight at him. A dark look falls over his face, enough to make me tremble slightly in my grip. 

“Move, and I’ll pull the trigger.” I warn him, as he slowly stands himself up. We begin to pace in a tight circle. 

“Not bad for a Lady,” he smirks, his voice humourless. “But still, you will die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have spooked myself slightly writing this chapter. I'll edit this properly later this week - apologies if there are any grammatical errors etc!


	7. An Unexpected Visit

“I am _not_ a Lady,” I say, meeting his icy gaze with a fiery one, “and I will _not_ die today.”

His lips curl into a smirk, as he projects a supercilious gaze toward me. His air of arrogance feels on one hand misplaced, yet on the other hand utterly terrifying. 

“You’re right about one thing,” he replies menacingly, “you’re not a lady indeed… just a pathetic little girl.”

That’s when he moves. Fast. Inhumanly fast. 

I pull the trigger instinctively, but he’s already onto me, cold hands grabbing my wrist and forcing it sideways as I shoot, my aim thrown far off. I immediately try to regain control of my arm, but his grip is iron, and I gasp as his hand tightens around my wrist, pain shooting straight through my arms. 

The revolver clatters out of my hand - _I can’t let him get it_ \- and I kick it as hard as I can, causing it to skid across the floor of the room and out the door. _Phew -_

My relief is short-lived as I’m involuntarily swung forward at the will of his crushing grip, sharp bolts of pain tearing through my right arm. I yelp in anguish - the pain is growing unbearable, and in a burst of what I can only describe as savagery, I sink my teeth deep into his hands.

He emits a blood curdling scream. His hold slacks, and I find myself staggering backwards. My entire left arm feels like it’s on fire. A tinge of a sickly taste becomes apparent in my mouth - I must have drawn blood. _If the situation weren’t so dire right now, I’d wonder if I look like a vampire._

The man faces me, apoplexy now seeping from his every movement, his breath audible with rage. I feel my own ragged breath, noticing now the multiple rips and tears in my dress, stray fabric spewing from ruptured seams. _My hat. How is it still perched on top of my head?_ I yank my ridiculous hat off, as the man clenches his knuckles and raises both fists. _A fistfight._

He moves first. His right arm lifts - and I swerve instantly, sidestepping his first punch. I swing my own fist, but he deftly deflects it. We stare each other down as we both step back, both poised for the other to try for the next blow. For the first time he seems to see me as a rival equal to him, his body now fully tense and alert.

That’s when we hear the voices from downstairs. _The Inspector!_ Our eyes meet, and I see a flash of panic in his otherwise stone-cold gaze. That's also when I see, from the corner of my eye, what looks like a small bundle of paper peeking out from the large pocket of his black suit. _Is that what he'd come to the house for?_

We both act at the same time. 

He turns, bolting for the window facing the back street, as I lunge for his blazer. He swings his arm at me, and I’m immediately struck by a split-second decision; block his incoming arm with mine but lose the possibility of grabbing the papers, or take the hit to the face, but prevent him from making off with the papers. 

I shut my eyes as I wildly clench my fingers down upon the papers, barely dislodging them from his person, before the force of his blow strikes my forehead like a battering ram, and my world spins as I tumble backwards in sheer disorientation. My forehead smarts, burns and pulses with overwhelming pain. I try to get ahold of my bearings, as my vision and balance come back in fits and starts. As I try to pick myself up, my head starts throbbing dangerously from the brunt of impact. With tremendous effort, I channel my remaining willpower towards focusing my hazy vision, and become vaguely aware of the man leaping from the window to the street below. _Wait - how high is that jump? Also, are those tentacles I see? Oh, just my hat._

With my still feeling like a rock atop my shoulders, I precariously pick myself off the floor, clawing myself to the window to see him land lithely, dropping into a short roll to break his fall. Then, with barely a break in his momentum, he sprints down the alleyway. _What is he - some sort of acrobat? I’m most definitely not following him out the window._

I turn around just as Inspector Lestrade bursts into the room, flanked by several of his men. 

“He ran,” I say weakly, pointing out of the window. My head is beginning to spin more violently now, dark spots clouding my field of vision. My legs feel like they’re dissolving to sludge. My eyes fall to the papers in my hands - a bundle of letters, sealed by the Carrington stamp - and then the floor seems to rush up to my eyes, and I see black.

***

Waking up from being punched in the face is not a pleasant experience in the slightest. 

The first thing I become cognisant of is my head throbbing relentlessly to the tune of a splitting headache, which sends waves of dizzying pain through my mind. Then, as I pry open my eyes, I become aware of something worse: my brother Sherlock sitting crossly in front of me. 

I bolt upright in my bed, and instantly regret it, as dark spots begin to swim menacingly in my vision.

“Lie down, Enola,” comes his stern voice, and for once I oblige without resistance, sinking my head back into my pillow. “Even for you, what you did was foolish, reckless and -”

“Save it,” I groan, clutching my head with my hands. The sound of his voice, though fluid, is grating. “You’re making my headache worse.” 

There’s a bout of silence, where all I hear is a low thump beating in my head. Then, I feel the soothing texture of a wet towel press lightly against my forehead, as Sherlock speaks again, his tone softer.

“You could have died, Enola.” he says, his voice tinged with what might be concern. It’s strange, almost, hearing the rare note of genuine emotion in his voice, free of his default gloss of biting wit and amusement.

I don’t reply, but savour the coolness of the towel against my forehead.

“After all, what good is a detective who’s dead?” _Ah, that sounds more like my dear brother Sherlock._

“If I tell you it won’t happen again, will you leave me be?” I ask through gritted teeth. Even small movements in my jaw hurt. How hard was I hit?

“That’s not exactly a promise you can, or will keep.” _Oh, he’s insufferable._

“Well, if you’re wrong and I _do_ keep this promise, will you stay out of my business?”

He seems to consider this for a beat.

“Well, that’s an easy caveat to accept, because I’m never wrong.” _Have I mentioned that humility doesn’t exactly run in our family?_ I would roll my eyes at him, but I fear trying to do so will only aggravate my headache. Instead, I just groan at his sheer arrogance.

He chuckles slightly. He stands and begins to pace the room, and I press the towel to my head with my own hands. 

“I must say, however, that your procurement of the letters was commendable,” he remarks. “The young Lord Bening was most relieved to receive them back.”

The letters. With effort, I turn to face him.

“What did the letters say?” I ask eagerly. Surely this would fill a vital piece in the puzzle.

“The young Lord was also most protective of its contents, so that remains a question mark.” 

I eye Sherlock suspiciously. It seems highly uncharacteristic for him to _not_ know something, which suggests to me he knows more than he's letting on. But I've currently the mental and physical stamina of a centenarian, so I forgo any further probing. For now. I segue to a new topic. 

"The girl, Emma, you know anything about her disappearance?” 

“Perhaps,” he says, with that infuriatingly enigmatic look on his face. “

“And, what you know is…?”

“Oh, I’d hardly want to spoil the game for you, Enola...” _Oh that… I will spare you the vulgarities flying through my head._ “...and besides, I'm sure you've too arrived at the conclusion that some players move still beyond our current vision.”

Well, I can't disagree with that. Certainly, pieces of the puzzle are still missing, and I can't form a coherent picture without them. 

“Well, thank you for your lecture and limited assistance,” I conclude sharply, as I dig my head further into my pillow.“I will, much to your delight, rest now.”

“That appears to be my cue to leave then,” he replies amusedly, picking up his top hat as he fishes out his pocket watch. “Ah, just in time for tea with Dr Watson.”

He turns to leave, but then seems to remember his capacity as a brother, and lightly says “rest well, then” before he leaves.

I let out a long sigh. That was not how I had anticipated my next meeting with Sherlock. Still, I can't help but feel grateful that he hadn't brought Mycroft into all this. I’d probably have been on a one-way carriage to Ms Harrison’s school by now.

I let the towel rest on my forehead, and let my arms fall beside me. I close my eyes. I _should_ rest, but my mind is abuzz. The case, the letters, Emma, the mysterious man I'd fought… one by one they jostle for position within my thoughts, sparring no space for peace, quiet and rest. My headache throbs on.

 _I need to stop thinking about the case, just for now_. I need to think… pleasant, peaceful thoughts that will put my mind at ease. Such as… such as… 

A meadow. Amidst hills undulating towards an infinite horizon. Perfect for a picnic... with Tewksbury. Lounging among an abundance of flora; thistles, burdocks - arctium lappa. Lying together with our hands held, bathing in each other's company.

The afternoon sun paints our skin golden. We giggle and speak whispered nothings, in a day of sunshine and lemonade and kisses…. Kisses? No. Too far. 

I blink my eyes open, and they feel groggy. Huh - I must’ve fallen asleep for quite a bit. It's starting to grow dark outside, and almost miraculously, my headache seems to have dulled significantly. _Let's not talk about that dream._

As I bring my senses up to speed with each other, I realise that I'd been awoken by an intermittent knocking on my door. 

_Oh no._

“Who’s there?” I ask out loud, warning bells ringing in my head as I bring myself to my feet with a light wobble, picking up my umbrella, the closest thing to a weapon I can find.

“Enola Holmes? It's me, William Bening… the Marquis of Carrington.”

 _Oh, what is he doing here?_ Still guarded, I gingerly step towards the door, opening it a fraction. Before me stands William, impeccably dressed. Seeing him close up now, his eyes are rather… _stop it, Enola._

I clear my throat.

“Lord Bening, it's a surprise to see you here… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, please call me William,” he says, with a short bow. His hair has got a nice curl to it. “I… wanted to ask you to dinner, as appreciation for what you did earlier today.”

“That's very kind of you, my Lord, but -”

“Oh, but I insist, Miss Holmes. You’ve done a great service to our family, greater than you probably imagine.” 

Gentlemanly, or fraught with ulterior motive? I cannot tell, but I suppose an interrogation - a conversation with one of the key players in this case could help me glean vital information. Still, I'd rather know more about the reason for this seemingly impromptu invitation. 

“Lord Bening, forgive me if I'm being blunt, but would there happen to be any other reason for this dinner?” 

He runs one hand through his hair. When he speaks again, he sounds deflated, his former poise diminished. 

“Look… I really think I could use your help.” he says, an undertow of helplessness lacing his formal, posh tone. “with my sister’s disappearance, my father’s death, my…” 

He catches himself as he gets increasingly riled up, then sighs, looking absolutely downtrodden. 

“I apologise Miss Holmes, perhaps this was an ill-conceived- ”

“No, not at all,” I assure him immediately. As much as I still harbour some reservations, I keenly feel the genuine weariness and exhaustion seeping off him. “I would love to have dinner, just give me a little time to get ready.” _I wonder if my dress and hat from earlier are fully out of commission - it feels like I've been burning through outfits at an alarming rate this past two days._

His face lights up, a beam spreading across his face. It looks as if a heavy weight has been momentarily lifted from his shoulders. 

“Of course, Miss Holmes. I shall await you in my carriage.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I have finals in a few weeks (ugh) so I'll probably be updating less frequently until mid/late November... but anyway thanks for reading!


	8. Dinner at the Ritz

“Where are we off to for dinner then, my Lord?” I ask as I step into the carriage. I had opted for something a little more conservative this time; a simple pink-red dress with an unexciting black feathered hat. Then again, it really was one of the only options I had. The dress and hat I’d worn earlier in the day had been irreparably torn and damaged from the fight.

“We’re headed to the Ritz,” he says, as the carriage sets off, “and please, do call me William.”

_ The Ritz? That’s terribly posh.  _

“William it is.” I reply, alive to the ease at which I find myself fixing my gaze upon his face. Still, what is equally alive in my mind is the very real proposition that William remains a key suspect in his family’s case. I’ll need to do some proper digging and probing tonight to get a better picture of things. 

The ride to the Ritz is a smooth one, but for slight delays in traffic. It’s a busy night in London; carriages and motor vehicles line Oxford Street, chauffeuring aristocratic pairings of young ladies and gentlemen. 

“Some sort of occasion at the Ritz?” I ask William as we step out of the carriage amidst the glittery assemblage of guests heading towards the grand entrance. He offers me his arm. Everyone seems too extravagantly dressed for a normal night out; assorted bling and ostentatious hats abound. My monstrous hat from before would have found good company here. 

“Seems an ordinary night at the Ritz as far as I’m aware,” William replies, although my disbelief at the sheer excess of “an ordinary night at the Ritz” doesn’t seem completely lost on him, as he drops his posture of perfect poise slightly to lean in for a conspiratorial whisper of, “we can be just a bit much sometimes, can’t we?”

“That might just be the understatement of the century,” I quip. A creeping insecurity settles beneath my skin with each step, as I become acutely aware of the fact that I might’ve been severely underdressed.  _ Why is dressing right so tedious and difficult? _

We’re barely halfway to the entrance of the hotel when we’re approached by a striking couple. They almost sashay towards, heads tilted upwards.

“William, my boy!” the young guy calls out. He’s perhaps the same age as William. William acknowledges him in return, and he shares a casual greeting with the couple. 

“This is er… Lady Holmes, we’re here together for dinner,” William says, then turns to face me. “These two here are Edward and Ada, childhood friends of mine.”

“Nice to meet you both.” I try to catch their eyes in greeting, but they seem conspicuously avoidant of my gaze, giving me but the briefest of a cursory glance in acknowledgement. 

“Well, that’s an… interesting new thing you’ve got with you, William,” Edward says, his lips twitching into a sharp curl. I catch an almost gleeful look in Ada’s eyes. 

“Edward...”

“Such a delightful new pocket watch, I mean.” 

“Ah… yes, it was my father’s.”

“Oh, we’re ever so sorry about your father, William,” Ada speaks now, her lips forming a slight, sorrowful pout as she bats her eyelids. “Do enjoy your dinner with…  _ Miss  _ Holmes.” She almost spits the last two words, as if it were some vulgar thing she had to deign to let escape from her lips. I bite my indignant tongue, withholding a rebut.  _ I’ve had enough trouble for today to deal with the likes of these two _ . Instead, I offer them a curt smile.

“Pleasure to see you both two,” William replies pointedly, grimacing slightly. He gives me a look -  _ apologies about them _ . They reply with short bows to William, then proceed forward towards the entrance. 

“That was pleasant,” I whisper, once they are out of earshot. 

“They’re really quite harmless, should you get to know them,” William replies in a conciliatory tone as we proceed into the hotel lobby, where we follow the procession of the crowd towards the large doors of the dining hall. 

To say that the dining hall of the Ritz is grand would be something of an understatement. Giant chandeliers glitter from far above, against aged but extensive murals that sweep across the entirety of the ceiling, stretching down towards the marble walls that line the hall. It almost feels too grand, if that’s possible. 

We’re ushered to a dainty table adorned with pristine white table cloths, a gold candlestick and neatly arranged utensils already awaiting us.  _ This feels like a situation where whatever little I learnt at Miss Harrison’s dreadful school might actually come in handy.  _

A low prickle runs across my shoulders, and I feel the surreptitious gaze of beady eyes settling upon our table, hushed whispers no doubt ablaze about the audacity that a young Lord has brought a common girl to dinner. Not exactly the attention I need right now.  _ The case. This is all worth it for the case.  _

“We’ll have the twelve course,” William says to the server as we settle into our chairs, and my mouth drops instinctively.  _ A twelve course meal? These people find ways to surprise me at every juncture.  _

“Twelve courses? A little excessive, don’t you think?” I lean in to say once the waiter leaves, and receive a low chuckle from William. 

“I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t opt for the sixteen course, then.”

The glow of the chandelier above and the candlelight between us bathes his face in a warm light. I can’t help but think that he has the sort of look that is at once homely and,  _ dare I say it _ , handsome; the right or wrong dressing or lighting could render him absurdly dashing on one hand or completely plain on the other. Currently, he may just be leaning towards the former categorisation.  _ I know what you’re thinking. I’m being completely embarrassing and pathetic. For the umpteenth time, I need to pull myself together.  _

“Given the… dire situation your sister is in, I think we should get right down to business,” I announce a little too forcefully, in a bid to dissipate the frivolous thoughts that had gathered in my head. 

“I suspected you might say something like that,” he replies with a sigh, but then he gives a cooperative nod. “Go on then.”

“Well, to begin I’d like to know what were in those letters, which I should note, I nearly gave up my life rescuing.” I begin, my arm instinctively reaching for a pocket where I’d store my notebook… which I forgot to bring. Of course. I’ll have to rely on memory work then. 

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes lower downwards momentarily, his lips pursing. A guarded expression hardens his features as he replies in a low voice, “What I can say without doubt is this… that in attempting to steal those letters, someone is after my family.” 

“I think I’m going to need more than that.”

He shifts uneasily in his chair. When he replies, his voice is lower still than before. “Disrepute, scandal, ruin… that sort of thing.”

Ah, so those letters must contain something particularly damning. But what?

“Might it be a stretch to ask the contents of those letters?”

“Yes, it would be.” he says firmly, with a note of finality. Someone’s clearly eager to move on from the topic of the letters. I make a mental note to give further thought to the content of those letters. Clearly, they seem to be an intrinsic part of the still incomplete puzzle. 

There’s a pause in our conversation as the waiter arrives with a large plate containing a singular item - what appears to be a wet towel of sorts. I reach out to grab it -  _ why is it… squishy?  _ I frown as it deforms and compresses within my grip. 

William clears his throat. 

"That’s… that’s a rice cake, Enola.” he says, a note of humour now present in his voice. “Imported from Asia, most useful for cleansing the palate.” 

His voice, while polite, prickles with a note of teasing, which reminds me of Tewk -  _ no, Enola, you will not invoke his name right now.  _

“Well, it’s… nicely textured,” I manage, trying and failing not to sound mortified. I plop it into my mouth as quickly as possible, unable to stop myself from glancing quickly around me to check if anyone had observed my mistake. Thankfully, it seems I’m in the clear. That, or those around me are conspicuously choosing not to direct their gazes towards us at the moment.  _ No time to worry about them.  _

“Let’s get back to… Emma. Do you have any idea where she might be?” I segue quickly from my rice cake mishap, meeting his lightly humoured expression with a pointed gaze. 

“I wouldn’t know where she'd run off to on an ordinary day, so your guess would be as good as mine. The constable and his men have been sweeping through our estates across the country this past day, but to no avail.” 

“Surely there exists some secret haunts of hers you would know of?”

He sighs. “You must understand, Enola, that Emma has always been… a problem child of the family. She’s always up to something unexpected.”  _ Well, that sounds like an apt description of myself, actually.  _ More so than before, I suspect I’ll get along with Emma once, or if, I do find her. 

A waiter approaches us with a new dish, which he introduces as an apparently exquisite form of foie gras. I’m beginning to see how twelve courses may not be an extraordinary prospect after all - these portions are tiny. I’m about to launch into another line of questioning, but this time, William speaks before I do.

“You realise what’s happening in this dining room?” he asks in a low, almost conspiratorial tone. Frowning, I cast a quick look around, at the many tables of two engaged in lively conversation. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I can tell.”

“It’s a prelude to the first ball of the season,” he says, his tone almost educational. “An avenue for potential matches to test the waters, if you will.”

He nods discreetly towards a table near us, leaning in slightly as he says, “The young Lord Cavenaugh there? He’s clearly lost interest in his date, Lady Roberts. That’s going to throw in doubt whether they’ll be paired at the first ball… and that’s all everyone’s going to talk about tomorrow.” 

“Well, I’d like no part of the gossip in your circle,” I reply with a raised eyebrow. “I’m assuming you raised this for a reason other than letting me in on some idle gossip?”

“You’re certainly astute,” he chuckles, a tone of what might be admiration in his voice. “I’d like you to attend the Carrington Ball, which, as you might be aware, is fast approaching.”

I frown, and my next words betray no small extent of surprise. 

“But… given what’s happened, surely your family’s ball would have to wait?”

He gives off a dry chuckle, which rings hollow. “The machinery of the gentry chugs on, I’m afraid. Even my father’s death couldn’t kill our stubborn adherence to tradition, much less disrupt the all-important season.”

For the first time tonight, I detect a trickle of bitterness in his voice, a bitterness that appears rooted in his position, his status in this world of his. It vaguely reminds me of a certain Marquess who I shall not name, and his eagerness to escape from his Marquesshood. Somehow, the acerbity in William’s voice appears to run deeper still, where just for a moment, his voice and demeanour appear to rise to the level of contempt. 

He collects himself as quickly as he’d let himself slip, straightening himself in his seat, the emotions on his face receding back behind a polite front. 

“What I’m attempting to convey is… I think it’d be beneficial to have someone working on the case attend the balls. Much can be learnt from the idle gossip of my people, especially when, I suspect, someone in my extended circle is behind all this.” 

It’s a convincing proposition, actually. It’d allow me access to the Carrington family, and something tells me that an event such as the Carrington Ball may indeed be useful ground for collecting more pieces of the puzzle. It could help me find out if perhaps one of those shadowy figures swimming beyond my current field of vision were within William’s ranks.

“And I’ll attend in the capacity of?”

“Well, a lady, I’d expect.”

_ Attending one of the most glamorous balls in England masquerading as a lady… hardly sounds like the sort of adventure that’ll end in disaster given my past track record, right?  _ Still, it’s not an opportunity I’m ready to pass up, potential disaster or not. Attending the ball could provide some important answers.

“I shall gladly accept your invitation, then.” I reply with a smile. He raises his glass of wine in response, as we’re served our next dish, a minuscule portion of some rare sort of fish. I could eat the entire thing in a single mouthful, but I observe as William cuts his into several smaller portions.  _ No wonder these posh dinners go on forever.  _

I copy his actions, lifting a tiny piece of an already minuscule portion somewhat incredulously to my mouth. That’s when I notice a low murmur reverberate through the crowd, as heads seem to turn around the room. I notice William’s own eyes look beyond me, taking in something behind me. What now?

I turn around to look, and nearly spit the fish from my mouth. I must’ve tempted Fate too much today, because she’s clearly just dealt me a fresh ordeal. Perhaps it’s their brightly toned outfits, or the fact that every pair of eyes seem trained upon them, but a spotlight seems to shine upon the pair that’s just entered the restaurant. They’re… glowing, almost, like some sort of angelic pairing amidst mortals. They’re also headed straight towards us. I'm tempted to pinch myself. Am I still asleep at my apartment, stuck in a dream which has evidently become a nightmare? 

I sense more than hear William standing up behind me, poised for a greeting.  _ Oh no.  _ My mouth opens to speak, but  I’m too late to stop him. 

“Ah, Tewksbury! Celia! It’s good to see you both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! I've finally completed my exams (yay), so it's prime time for more Enola and Tewks.


	9. The London Night

I’ve always found the term spontaneous combustion to be a hyperbolic one, until this very moment. An intense heat seems to rise from the pit of my stomach, all the way to the tips of my hair, threatening to set every fibre of my being ablaze. I’d tune you into my inner monologue, but all you’ll hear is a deafening, blood curdling scream.

“Enola! What a pleasant surprise it is to see you here!” Celia chirps.  _ Oh that poor, oblivious girl. She doesn’t realise she’s waded into a battlefield. _

“What a surprise indeed,” quips Tewksbury, and I feel his eyes bore into me, as my own eyes adamantly refuse to meet his. “William my boy, I trust you're having a fine evening, seeing as Miss Holmes hasn't yet decided to desert you in a moment’s notice.”

I’ve dealt with grumpy Tewksbury, insufferable Tewksbury, and even snide Tewksbury, but never have I known him to direct genuine spite towards me, even if but a tinge of it. Now, his words carry a subtle venom, benign but stinging.

I immediately turn to face him head on, with a warning glare; a gaze meant to pierce.

“Lord Tewksbury… you jest, surely?” I reply with a caustic chuckle, sharply holding his gaze. He clears his throat, straight shoulders wilting slightly. Almost involuntarily, he takes a tepid step back.  _ As he should. _

He doesn’t immediately reply, and in place of a gaping silence, William offers a flat laugh, eyes darting between the both of us. A look enters his eyes.  _ Oh, he’s caught on.  _ William’s about to speak, but Tewksbury beats him to the punch.

“I jest indeed. I’d have no reason to seriously accuse the fine Miss Holmes of such an act, do I?”

He sounds like a petulant child, which might have been endearing if his petulance wasn’t aimed at me. That only makes him sound annoying. 

“I’d feel awful doing such a thing... unless the person I unfortunately deserted decides to publicly scorn me for it.”

You can cut the tension with any one of the fancy knives set out before me. It feels nothing like one of our usual, sarky tangle. Instead, each snipe at the other feels deeply unpleasant, leaving a foul aftertaste in my mouth. Celia clears her throat, jutting in with a singsong voice, in a seeming bid to defuse the situation.

“ _ Well,  _ it was a delight to see you both... we shan’t withhold you from your dinner,” she says, lightly tugging Tewksbury’s arm. He resists for a moment, but then relents, ending our battle of glares.

“Indeed,” Tewksbury sighs, eyes flitting away, downcast. “Have a pleasant evening.”

He looks miserable, and for a moment, a torrent of regret wells within me -  _ was I too acidic? Too cold and hostile? Did I glare too menacingly? Should I apologize? -  _ but then another voice cuts through the wave of doubt with authority:  _ No. I need to stop agonizing with myself over some boy - how am I to be a great detective otherwise? _

“Likewise,” I reply, offering a polite smile to them both.

As they both leave, I watch as the distance widens between us with each step they take. That insolent voice in my head rears itself again, bidding me to say or do something, but I silence it. With effort, I wrench my gaze away from them, turning to face William, who looks stunned, gobsmacked.

“What was  _ that _ all about?” he asks in a low voice, eyes wide. “You sounded like you were about to have a duel to the death.”

“Nothing to be concerned about, really.” I reply, forcing out a laugh. I try to reassemble my thoughts, which are in a jumbled mess. My hand instinctively reaches for the comfort of my detective’s notebook, which of course isn’t here with me.  _ Great.  _ I reach into my now frazzled memory, trying to piece together my investigative notes before a rude interruption by a certain someone.  _ Right, where were we? Damning letters of some sort, has no clue where his sister is, has invited me to his ball. That’s it, right?  _ I can almost see the look on Sherlock’s face if he were here, witnessing me flounder. He'd be wearing the smirk of a schoolteacher presenting a failing script to his least favourite pupil. 

“Well… it certainly didn’t sound like nothing,” he muses when I don’t say more, fingers tapping against his wine glass. After a beat, he continues, “I know we’ve only just made each others’ acquaintance, but you can find a listening ear in me should you require one.”

He sounds sincere enough, and for a beat I’m tempted to speak frankly of my Tewksbury-induced ordeal, but I remind myself that he may well be hiding something behind his veneer of outward sincerity. One can never underestimate the lure that drama, scandal and gossip can have, even on a gentleman like William. There’s something inviting, however, about his earnestness to listen. The gentleness of his face, in stark contrast with the sharp scowls I’d just received from Tewksbury, certainly help as well. 

“It’s simply that…”, I catch the words in my mouth momentarily, feeling them form faster than I can think, “I fear ending up in a life, where I’m forced to play the part of someone I’m not.”

He raises any eyebrow, and now the words gush out of me like a geyser. “I don’t expect you to understand but… I mean, I mistook a rice cake for a towelette. I think a twelve course meal is nothing but… time-consuming, unproductive and frivolous. I need to be spending my time being productive, bettering myself as a detective, or I’ll feel as though I have thoroughly failed myself!”

There’s a pause after my outburst, where the crescendo of my voice falls off a cliff into an empty silence.  _ Oh god. He must think I escaped from an asylum of some sort.  _

But then he leans forward, eyes glistening, and says, “You know, Miss Holmes, I think I understand you exactly.” 

There’s a potentness to his voice that makes me instinctively believe him, even as the voice of reason within me protests:  _ Understand me how exactly? He’s clearly patronising you.  _

“Well, if you’re being someone you’re not, you’re certainly putting on a good show of it,” I reply truthfully, “you’re the model gentleman.”  _ Not to mention an attractive gentleman, but that’s not particularly relevant here.  _

“Oh, you are in for a shock, Miss Holmes, if only you knew….” he starts, but then seems to reins himself in, his expression darkening. He clears his throat, straightening himself in his seat.  _ Knew what?  _ The hair on my skin prickles, standing on end. There’s something important he’s not telling me… could this be related to the case?

“I’d like to show you something, after dinner.” he says, a small smile playing on his lips.  _ Well, that sounds interesting.  _ We’re served another course - I’ve lost count at this point - but it’s some sort of over-adorned dessert, so the meal must be coming to an end. 

He seems to recede back into his usual, polite self, although that look of understanding remains in his eyes. 

When we finish up dessert, an usher arrives to lead us from the hall. As we stand, I sneak a brief peek in the direction that Tewksbury and Celia had gone, vaguely picking up their two figures, engaged in conversation. I force myself not to cast them a look longer, as I follow William out. I wonder if they’re talking about me.  _ Not that I care.  _ __

We head out of the dining hall, then turn towards the lifts that lead up to the guest rooms above.  _ Wait… this had better not be going in some wayward direction.  _

“Don’t worry, Enola, nothing nefarious is afoot,” he chuckles, seeming to read my mind. I must admit, my curiosity has only heightened now. 

We proceed into the elevator, where he directs the lift operator to bring us to the roof.  _ The roof?  _ Nothing good happens on a roof, at night. I give William a look, and he returns one of excitement, like a child about to share a mischievous secret. Is something… unsavoury about to transpire? Or worse? 

We reach the roof before I can map out all the possibilities in my head, and we step out onto the landing, which is hardly lit, darkness pooling against the grey walls, gravel and debris crunching beneath our feet. A far cry from the glitz and glamour of the ballroom directly below us. Another possibility occurs:  _ Is this where people go to get murdered? _

“This way,” William says, clearly excited. I follow a tepid step behind, refreshing my jiu jitsu moves in my mind -  _ they could come in handy soon.  _

He leads us past a block of concrete walls, from where a light source seems to emanate.  _ Some sort of illegal hideaway?  _ We turn the corner… and before us London’s landscape stretches before us, dotted with twinkling lights, the moon casting a warm glow against the roofs of the buildings below. Stars, usually obstructed from the ground by smog, shine brightly in the night sky. 

_ Wow.  _

Seeing with inhuman gaze the view of London at night, from above; it’s illimitable unfolding, it’s an almost seductive sight. 

“It’s a fine refuge, isn’t it?” he says while I gawk in wonder. “Up here, London looks so much less infuriating.” 

“It certainly puts things into perspective.” I remark. It’s true: for a moment, the incessant thoughts clouding my mind, of Tewksbury, of my hazy, untold future - seem to fade into the darkness of the infinite night before us.

“My sister showed me this spot,” William continues. He gestures to a small set-up assembled beside us, consisting of two small chairs and a table. We pull up a chair each, sitting ourselves down. “It’s our secret place, and I came here immediately when I returned to London. Usually, she’d leave a note here if she’s up to something but… nothing.”

I can hear the implications in his words.  _ If she didn’t leave a note, it must mean she’s in danger of some sort.  _ It’s a worrisome thought that punctuates the light night breeze and grand view before us. 

“I’ll find her, and bring her home safely,” I reply quietly, with earnest confidence. “I give you my word.”

I look again at William, studying his face, as he looks on into the city below. Up here, in the creamy darkness of the night, away from the madding crowd, I allow my gaze to linger, and linger. It’s strange, really. I have known him but a day, and yet a warm comfort seems to well in me as I continue to look at him.

I blink away quickly I let myself get carried away.  _ Control yourself, Enola.  _ Why am I going all soft now? I might need to pay Edith a visit tomorrow for a good jiu jitsu session. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have noticed my not-so-discreet staring, and we ruminate silently for a bit, allowing the indistinct clamour and chatter from down below to substitute as conversation. From up here, the distant sound of voices is almost soothing. It’s tempting to allow time to slip away, gazing into the night, but the voice of reason, ever present, tells me that I simply cannot spend such time in extended isolation with a marquess, while a packed ballroom filled with ravenous gossip mongers dine directly beneath us. 

“We should probably head back down,” I say reluctantly after a beat. 

“Indeed, I think we should,” William replies, as we both stand. He really is a sight for sore eyes, and seems more than ever to exude a calm, comforting aura. I can’t help but compare this to my encounter with Tewksbury earlier; harsh, biting and acrimonious. Gently, William lifts my hand, planting a light kiss on the front of my hand.  _ I mean, you can’t blame me for swooning just a little. _

In response, I condense my frankly embarrassing thoughts into a small smile. Before we turn to leave, I cast one last look towards the night view before us, and capture the sight in my mind’s eye. I dread this departure already, knowing how imminently I’ll have to face the ton below. Let's hope no one's noticed our brief retreat to the rooftop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait (again)! I'll try to update faster because... new year new me, right?


End file.
